Silent Messages
by Lawson227
Summary: Carlton & Juliet have been partners and friends for five years. After a certain madman enters their lives, for a brief time, they become more.  I have a soft spot for Carlton wanted to play a little "what if" for post eps 4.16 & 5.16.


_**Silent Messages**_

Don't own **psych**. Just playing in the sandbox a bit—no infringement intended. This is my first foray into this particular sandbox, so here we go.

**AN: **To anyone coming in and rereading, no, it's not your imagination, the first paragraph has been altered a bit. I realized I wrote a line that didn't jibe with something later on in the story, so I tweaked.

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><p>He'd done everything he needed to.<p>

He'd rescued her from that damned over-enthusiastic EMT, then held her while she broke down, the dawn light bathing them in an almost obscene gentleness. He'd driven her home, taken the keys from her shaking hand, opened the door, and fixed her a cup of herbal tea while she showered away the horrors. Washing away the feeling of that… _thing_ having his hands on her; of waiting, suspended high above the street while behind her, her life literally ticked away. Of praying for someone—_anyone_—to come in time, convinced no one would, the expression in her eyes dull and accepting, as if death had already touched her, skating an icy cold finger along her spine until it rested on her pulse, a sign that soon... soon... it would all be over.

He'd waited while she drank her tea and tucked blankets around her, telling her, in his usual brisk manner that she should take the day. He had tempered the order a bit, delivering it in the same voice he'd used at the clock tower, the soothing croon he hadn't even known he was capable of, and then, lest she feel guilty, assured her he'd be taking the day, too. The paperwork could wait. She didn't have to know, after all, that he'd most likely finish it at home, since he didn't expect sleep to be coming any time soon. She didn't have to know that every time he closed his eyes for more than a split second, all he could see was her, bound to that chair, feet dangling into endless space, that dead expression in her eyes while that fucking clock just ticked, ticked, ticked with the excruciating regularity of a metronome, flooding his mind with memories of his ancient grade school music teacher and her licorice gum-scented breath.

And when she'd grasped his wrist, silently imploring, he'd just as silently perched on the edge of her bed, stroking her hair until she fell asleep.

Only then, did he allow himself to go home—not without leaving her a note, mind you—where he calmly walked in, neatly lined his badge and gun up in the top drawer of his bedside table, hung his jacket and tie up in the closet, and proceeded to throw up the entire contents of his stomach, repeatedly retching until nothing was left but bile, burning a hot, acid trail up his esophagus and setting the whole cycle in motion again.

After standing beneath the shower's punishing spray long enough for the water to go from scalding to ice cold, he pulled on a t-shirt, worn to the point of threadbare and all the more comfortable for it and a pair of equally comfortable flannel pajama pants before heading into his kitchen and pouring a cup of coffee. But no matter how much he told himself it was what he wanted, that it would settle his nerves to fall back into some semblance of routine, he couldn't bring himself to do more than sit with the cooling mug between his palms as his mind relived every single moment of the case, trying to pinpoint where and when and how and most of all, why couldn't he have figured out what the hell was going on before she was taken.

He most likely would have sat there all day, engaged in the futile exercise if it hadn't been for the tentative knock. And he _knew_, even before he opened the door—knew it in such a deep part of his being, he didn't even bother peering through the peephole or asking who was there. He merely opened the door, slipped off the cherry-red, way-too-heavy-for-Santa Barbara down parka she'd thrown on over her pajamas, and silently led her back to his room where he helped her into his bed, climbed in beside her, and held her while she shivered and burrowed close against his warmth.

Night after night, it was the same. He'd check in on her, make certain she was okay, that she had food or anything else she needed. He made certain that she'd made the required appointment for her psych eval and that she'd actually followed through with it. If he was on a case, he'd work tirelessly until it was solved, keeping the dedicated, some might even say insane, hours that had earned him the reputation of a soulless automaton, but he didn't care. Of course, that meant that sometimes, he didn't get home until early in the morning, closer to dawn than not, but no matter when he returned, within an hour, there she'd be, that ridiculous coat thrown over her pajamas. The only difference from that first night was that now she was arriving with a change of clothes tucked into a battered backpack. She'd drop the backpack just inside his bedroom door and climb into his bed, silently waiting for him to join her. He'd slip in beside her, often bearing a mug of tea or sometimes, cocoa, the latter bringing a faint smile to her face when she noticed the small marshmallows, real ones, not those crappy cardboard chips, dotting the dark, velvety surface. A smile that would only grow bigger as she'd take that first sip, tasting the richness touched with a hint of spiciness, a sure sign he'd made it from scratch, with real cocoa and whole milk and just a hint of chile, like the hot chocolate at the Mexican restaurant they'd eaten at once after a case and that she'd declared the _best_ hot chocolate ever, exhorting him to take a taste. He'd tried to defer, saying he wasn't much a hot chocolate person, but she'd insisted it was only because he'd probably never had _good_ hot chocolate. Like the hot chocolate she was currently drinking and wanted to share, because Carlton, everyone needed to try good hot chocolate at least once in their lives. Finally he'd taken a sip—if only to stop her incessant babbling he'd told himself—and had to admit she was right. The hot chocolate wasn't merely good—it was sublime. And from that night on, he'd made it a point to have the ingredients on hand and indulged, at least once a week. And now he got to bring it full circle, sharing with her.

They didn't talk much—they didn't have to. They had spent more than five years talking, about things both trivial and important, so it didn't seem like a necessary act. The quiet merely added weight to those rare times they felt the need to speak. So it was when late one night, head resting over his heart, she told him she was returning to work, but not returning to the squad, not just yet, he felt each word intensely and hurt for her and tensed with renewed anger that he hadn't been able to do more. To fix things.

When she reached up and kissed him, he'd initially stiffened, started say something about crossing lines before realizing that right then, in that moment, there weren't any lines to cross because they weren't partners and who knew when, or even if, they ever would be again. He'd relaxed then and taken all she had to give and had given everything he'd held in reserve for far too long. As always, conversation wasn't necessary, but words had emerged nevertheless—quiet words full of emotion—but no promises. Never any promises because the one thing they'd always been with each other was honest. Neither of them was in a position to make promises and neither of them would—not with such high stakes.

Their curious sort of half-life continued until the day she pulled a gun on a perp. It was partially his fault he knew—his less-than-subtle attempts to draw her into a case, to draw her back to the job. As much as he loved having her against him night after night, he'd hated her absence during the days, her empty desk mocking him from across the short distance that separated it from his. She was a good cop. She wasn't meant for a desk job at City Hall. And so he did his damnedest to draw her back into their daytime world even with the risk it posed to everything else.

And when she came to him that night as if nothing had changed, he allowed himself to dream—just for a brief moment—these lovely nebulous things that he wanted to grasp and hold close, but as they silently held each other through the night, he knew _everything_ had changed.

He knew it would be the last night she would come to him.

But at least he had her back during the day where everything was the same between them. They were good partners and they talked and squabbled and caught bad guys, with Spencer and Gus and even Henry officially in on the act. And that damnable line was back, firmly in place, never to be crossed and those moments where they hadn't been partners had to be tucked away, somewhere dark and hidden, to be brought out only in the quietest, darkest moments of the night, while he lay in bed, waiting for a knock he knew wasn't going to come.

Then a guy, just like Spencer, but even better, in many ways, showed up and he saw the life fully come back into her eyes, and even if a certain wistfulness cast gray shadows over the clear blue, he told himself it was simply his imagination, that he was only seeing what he wanted to see.

But he hadn't imagined it—the wistfulness had been there until one day, the shadows cleared, leaving her eyes brilliant blue and so damned happy, it made something in him ache. Then came a night, terrifyingly similar to another not so long ago, and in the aftermath, the reasons behind the wistfulness and the happiness became clear—a simple gesture etched into his memory. He called himself ten kinds of an ass for not having realized. Carlton had never imagined that any of it was because of him—okay, maybe a tiny part of him had hoped—but he'd really never imagined who that faraway look in her eyes had been for. Although he should have. He _should_ have. But he hadn't.

And even though she'd once more been subject to the whims of a madman and his disciple; even though her life had once again been threatened; even though so many things had been the same as that fateful night, one key element remained different. So goddamned different, to say he would never have been expecting the tentative knock at the door in the inky dark of the dawn morning would be understating it.

But she'd come in, swaddled in that ridiculous cherry-red down jacket and looked at him with stricken blue eyes and he knew that whatever she had with Spencer, she didn't yet trust him with this. Maybe she never would. However, that didn't matter. What did matter was that she'd come to him.

Even so, it wasn't the same—not with what he'd seen that morning. So when he made no move to join her in bed, merely leaning against the doorjamb, understanding had dawned across her lovely face. And in a quiet voice confessed yes, she was with Spencer and she knew he loved her and she wasn't certain how she felt about him, but it was something she'd wondered about for so long and now that it was within her grasp, she had to see where it would go, otherwise, she'd have questions the rest of her life.

Left unsaid was that she had no questions about him. She knew what day-to-day life with him would be like and she knew what the nights would be like. She even knew what those in-between moments, twilight and dawn, those quiet, not really nothing, yet everything moments would be like.

When he didn't move from his spot in the doorway, she asked what he was thinking.

"I won't be played with, Juliet." He lifted a hand, silencing her before the protest he knew was brewing could emerge. "I'd give you everything if you asked, which I know you already know—and which _I_ know you won't. Clearly, you're not ready for that and to be honest, I'm not sure I am either." Finally he moved, coming to sit on the edge of the mattress. Carefully, he stroked her hair back from her face, tucking a few wayward strands behind one ear. "For so long, it was all about my ex and then, you were there and you filled all the empty spaces so perfectly and it was all about you. Maybe it was inevitable, but…" He paused and took a deep breath, afraid of what he was about to say—afraid he might see understanding and worse still, agreement in her steady blue gaze. "Maybe it was just convenient."

As her eyes brightened, becoming shiny with the unmistakable film of tears, he called himself the worst kind of prick, but he couldn't back down. They'd always, _always_ been honest with each other—with only a few notable exceptions. "I need to know it's not," he said gently. "And for that, I need time. And you need—" He took another deep breath, hating what he was about to say. But as she had so many times before, she saved him, shaking her head as she placed her fingertips against his lips, stilling the breath holding the name that had always come between them.

But not here. Never here. Here, they were their own world and if this was their last night, it would be theirs alone.

He'd been determined to savor every last moment of the night, but exhaustion finally claimed him and he'd drifted off as he had so many nights before, her head resting over his heart. Except this time, when he awoke, there was nothing left but the indentation of her head in the pillow beside his and the faint scents of chocolate and chile.

And once again, things returned to normal. So normal, he was almost able to pretend it had been nothing more than the loveliest of dreams. It wasn't until weeks later, when unseasonably cold weather had him opening the hall closet where he stored his heavier jackets that the dream once again took on the feel of something real and tangible.

Because past his trench coat and ski jacket, nestled comfortably against the heavy wool of his Civil War great coat was an achingly familiar cherry-red down jacket. And he knew—she'd be back. He didn't know when or how, but she would. And he knew the next time she came to him, it would be for good.

Without saying a word, she'd said everything.


End file.
